


You Get All Sorts

by Azzandra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, M/M, Not A Very Serious Fic, Provincial Life in the Alternian Empire, Wry Internal Monologuing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:28:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Equius and Eridan cross paths as adults. For now, mostly involves Equius being dismayed by life in the Alternian colonies. Though really just in this one in particular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

If you were inclined towards platitudes, you would probably apply the one saying “the sweeps were kind” to Eridan Ampora, but only out of respect for the cliché, and not for the troll himself. It's honestly hard to parse just how kind they might have really been. At the very least they were excessively permissive, since they didn't let Ampora end up as an unsightly smear on the prong end of a culling fork.

He has the kind of posting usually given to someone whose rank outmatches their ability; respectable, but far enough from anything important that he would not be put into the position of being an embarrassment to the Empire. He has been entrusted with governing a colony of impressive size, but minimal tactical importance. A patronizing pat on the head.

Ampora, however, does not seem to perceive it as the insult it is. And as befits someone who misses every opportunity to ever feel humbled, his fondness for capes has only reached new and dizzying heights ever since leaving Alternia. He is wearing a dark heavy one with innumerable golden chains. If he were a proper seadweller, you'd be hoping for the chains to drag him to the bottom of the ocean, where he would never bother you again. Alas, that is not to be. He is firmly on land and busy being as aggravating as possible.

He studies the blueprints you've presented to him with an air of slow deliberation. You expect nothing more than a quick signature in the bottom corner, and any other seadweller would have done so in seconds and then immediately ejected you from their office, but Ampora insists on actually affecting the air of someone who understands what the fiddle he's looking at.

“Right, everythin' looks in order,” Ampora says after a while, nodding. He signs his name in the corner, large and flowery enough to satisfy his royal heritage—and then some.

You doubt he understood a single line or angle on the blueprint, but you don't comment on it. It is not your place, reluctant as you are to admit it.

Ampora hands the blueprints to a low-ranking functionary to take them away, but doesn't dismiss you outright. When you're both alone he gives you a look over his glasses.

“You know, Eq,” he says wistfully, “Someone told me that they call 'em blueprints on account a most engineerin' types bein' bluebloods. Funny, but I never really pictured you designin' ships or irrigation systems or laser-guided horn polishers or whatever your type gets up to. Never really pictured what anyone 'sides myself would be doin' all grown up, but if I did, you woulda been more of the punchin' down walls type.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, because if it's a nostalgia trip he's fishing for, you'd prefer he go at it alone.

“I trust you'll be overseein' construction?”

“Yes, sir.” As if you'd trust any of the local workers to know a wrench from a funny-shaped rock.

“Well. Okay, then. Dismissed.”

You turn around and stride purposefully towards the door, but you can't resist.

“It's a myth,” you say.

“What?” he says, taken aback.

“It's a myth that they're called blueprints due to the caste of the engineers who draw them,” you say.

“Then why?”

“Because the paper is blue,” you say, slow enough so even Ampora might finally catch on to the obvious.

He considers this for a moment, then smiles widely in your direction. He isn't really looking at you, though.

“Well, I'm just goin' to have to drop some knowledge on someone next time I see 'em,” he says, his smile turning gleeful and a bit vindictive as he continues to look at that point over your shoulder.

You depart, and you have to squelch down the first twinge of curiosity you've ever experienced in connection to Eridan Ampora.

 

*

 

You have quarters within the palace, as befits one of the best mechangineers in the Artifixers' Corps. You spend very little time in your guest block, but still, you appreciate the gesture.

During the first week, you spend most of your nights overseeing the constructions. You wake before the sun is down and you collapse into sopor when the morning has gotten too bright for you. You eat standing up, or if a table is somehow involved, you eat while going over blueprints. The palace cooks are even accommodating to your eccentric eating habits, and you barely get any dirty looks at all the first few times you send back unsatisfactory dishes.

You have very little time for socializing, and you're somewhat relieved Ampora doesn't attempt any ill-conceived overtures of friendship. Your acquaintance with him was vague, at best, and steeped in the contempt that typifies relationships between seadwellers and landwellers. You might never have met him if it hadn't been for Vriska, but then, there is a long list of annoyances you never would have experienced if Vriska hadn't been your neighbor.

Since conscription, you've learned to put your distaste for seadwellers aside in the service of the Empire. You pull it out on special occasions, though. Such as when one of them bars your way out of the palace.

“Pardon me, madam,” you say.

The shriveled old seadweller gives you a gap-toothed smile. She is strangely gaunt, and her skin hangs loose. Your mind shies away from even calculating how old she must be to have reached such a stage in life. She is all but decomposing standing up, and her three—yes, definitely three, you counted—shawls do nothing to make her look any more imposing than some sort of vegetable covered by a husk.

“You're pardoned,” she says, but doesn't move out of the way. When you try to go around her, she steps aside to block your path once again. “Well, since you're not doing anything right now, might you step into my office?”

You very carefully unclench your fist before you even clench it all the way. There are ways to deal with this situation. Proper, civilized ways.

“On hooves orders?” you ask. “Whose. On _whose_ orders.”

She smiles at you indulgently.

“On mine, young man.”

“Do you also happen to have a name, madam? If you would please indulge a young man.”

“Governtagonizer-Adjunct Drumrock,” she says.

You feel yourself break out into sweat. Up until this point, you were only familiar with Lady Drumrock's signature, a blocky, legible script in thick purple ink, covering almost every important piece of paper you've had to look at all week. You would not have imagined this woman's frail fingers behind a signature like that. You can only assume her writing implement is weighed down by all her sweeps of life put together, because it surely can't be by her emaciated fingers.

You step into her office without a word.

Her desk is massive, and you are half surprised she doesn't need a map and a mountain guide to find her way around it. There are papers all over, covering every inch of the desk's surface. She doesn't offer you a seat, and given how damp you are at the moment, you wouldn't want to ruin one anyway.

“My boy,” she says, with the genial pale condescension that many older highbloods affect towards those of lower rank, “I understand you've been working hard all week.”

“Yes, ma'am,” you say. A phrase which would be almost as safe as 'yes, sir' but for the fact that it is usually uttered towards a female troll.

“We've had complaints.”

“About my work?”

“About your work ethic.”

“What is wrong with my work ethic?” you ask, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Nothing but the surplus of it.”

“Pardon?”

“Tone it down, lad. You're running our people ragged.”

“Ah... My... my purpose here is to do the job as quickly and as efficiently as possible.”

“But would it kill you to take a couple of nights off? There's a party, you know! Tomorrow night. Get yourself a nice dress shirt and mingle.”

“I'm not here to mingle,” you say, in a tone you judge to be firm yet polite.

She gives you a blank look.

“It's going to be like that, then,” she says. “Oh, well. I suppose I should give you the bad news.”

“Bad news?”

“The supplies you require for your next stage of construction. They've been misplaced.”

“They were delivered just tonight. I got a receipt.”

“Also the workers are on strike.”

“The workers,” you repeat blandly.

“Yes! Quite unfortunate! I was just informed,” she says, gesturing to a random piece of paper on her desk.

“Ma'am, that's a requisition form for grubcorn kernels.”

“It says on the other side. We don't believe in wasting paper here,” she says, snatching up the offending document and shuffling it between many others.

“I could still go and do the work myself.”

“All alone?”

“Yes.”

She regards you, and visibly mulls over your words. It is petty of you, but you've had to swallow a lot of pride since being conscripted, and it's coming back up at the moment.

“But you won't,” she says.

“Won't I.”

“Because that would be insubordination. And I would have to file a report. And I do so like filing reports, oh my. It is the only fun thing I can still do in my old age. Sometimes I am completely besides myself when writing one up, just get carried away by all that excitement, and I wake up covered in ink and with my hand cramping severely and no recollection of why an entire contingent of the janitorial staff have been slotted for culling. And a record as clean as yours, well...” She taps her finger on a piece of paper. “You'd like to keep it that way, I reckon.”

“Ma'am, that's a report on legume blights in the northern hemisphere.”

“I'm being metaphorical, Zahhak. Do keep up.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Unlike my complaints to the Artifixer Corps, which would be entirely and unambiguously literal in nature.”

“...Yes, ma'am.”

She smiles and offers you a towelette from a desk drawer. You soak through it just by taking it in your hand, but you pat it against your forehead anyway just to be polite.

“Cheer up, Zahhak! There's a street festival going on right now,” she says. “Go have fun! The street food is especially greasy this time of night.”

You slink off.

 

*

 

You do not go to the street festival. You hole yourself up in your guest block and review the few plans in your possession. You tell yourself firmly that you are Not Sulking, but you only last two hours before you're sitting at your husktop and pinging Nepeta over Trollian. You do this despite the fact that you know she's going to tell you the same thing as Lady Drumrock, but Nepeta is your moirail and that is to be expected of her. It's not the same as some nosy seadweller sabotaging your work schedule.

Nepeta never does log on, so you sullenly leave the palace around midnight and wander the streets. If Drumrock hadn't told you there was a street festival going on, you'd have just assumed the colony's vagrants all decided to come out and impede traffic at the same time. Burned-out highbloods and loud shameless gutterbloods all shuffle about wearing fashions even you can tell have long since run their course.

It's all very... provincial, you suppose. The plum assignments are all in the Fleet, leaving the colonies as the less glamorous alternative, but even compared to other colonies, this planet is almost tragically inconsequential. Barely reaching a million in population, and apart from some extensive mining and agriculture, its only other purpose seems to be as a repository for all the people the Empire doesn't strictly need, but won't cull in case they come into usefulness later.

You have to wonder, a bit, what strings Ampora had to pull to convince anyone that this planet's infrastructure needed an overhaul. The plans you were sent here to enact were massive in scope, and pricy to boot. It's not your job to question these things—you have a job and you will do it—but privately it does strike you as a lot of effort in hope of very little payout.

A greenblood vendor hopefully leans over and offers you some piece of fried offal on a stick. It is offensive to even regard, much less smell.

“No, thank you,” you say.

“You sure?” the vendor says, having the cheek to actually argue with you. “The gizzard's the best part of the swampsnipe.”

“I don't consume the flesh of noble beasts,” you reply. You shouldn't have said a word, of course, because you do not need to justify yourself, but people have begun to stare.

The vendor bursts into laughter.

“Then you're in luck, 'cause there sure weren't anything noble about this bugger,” the vendor says, waving the stick.

You continue on your way and take note of the rest of the festival. A few sad little games have been set up. In a corner, two rustbloods are telekinetically wrestling. Most of it involves just standing there glaring at one another, but the crowd seems able to discern who is winning just by reading their scowls, and odds are laid out accordingly. You do not approve of gambling, finding it to be the pursuit of fools and peasants, but you spot a hollow-eyed indigo-blood slipping a few banknotes to another troll, and your sensibilities are so offended that you linger for a while.

One of the rustbloods falls over, to the cheers of half of the crowd and the groans of the other, and money exchanges hands. You move on before the indigo can catch you staring.

Eventually, hunger gets the best of you, and you part with some of your stipend for some acceptable broth and a rather... interestingly flavored local bread. You are not inclined towards such rustic dishes, but your nutrition sac is far less discerning than your elevated palate.

That is as much adventure as you can stomach for one night.

You return to the palace to find a brownblooded servant pawing through your things. She freezes in place when you enter, your clothing thrown all over the sofa in complete disarray.

“What is the meaning of this?” you ask.

The servant's eyes dart towards the door.

“Well,” she says, and then her eyes shift towards the window, “the thing is, is that... you see, as it happens...”

“Don't look at the window unless you mean to depart by it,” you tell her.

You are several levels up, but you can see that she's still weighing her options.

“Lord Ampora, you see,” she says, shifting on her heels, still looking at the door. “Said someone should check you've got them party clothes. On account of the party.”

“The... party tomorrow?”

“Oh, that one, yeah,” the servant said. “If you didn't, then I s'pose we'd have to get you some, but you got some nice dress uniforms here.”

“Yes, indeed. And those uniforms, to my memory, had some rather fetching buttons, as well.”

She looks resigned as she takes out a handful of shiny buttons out of her pocket.

“Can't blame a girl for trying, eh?” she says with what you assume to be a roguish twinkle in her eyes. “Eh?”

It is quite regrettable that charm does not work on you. The roguish twinkle in her eye reaches nuclear luminosity, but you are still unmoved.

 

*

 

You run into Drumrock on your way to Ampora's quarters.

“My goodness, Zahhak,” she says. “I should've known you were the type. But in public like this?”

“Pardon?” you say, stopping in your tracks.

You realize right away that you shouldn't have stopped. Storming into someone's chambers tends to lose its momentum if you stop to chat with little old trolls.

You lift the servant off your shoulder and place her down on the ground. She looks at Drumrock with large barkbeast eyes over her gag, and wiggles her fingers a bit, on account of the rest of her being tied up too tightly to do much else.

“This scoundrel attempted to rob me,” you explain to Drumrock.

“Oh! Well, pardon me for misinterpreting,” Drumrock says. “I only assumed, well, troll as uptight as you, bound to be into that kind of-- oh good grief, is that Snagpie?”

“Snag... pie?”

“It's what we call little Delora. Snagpies, you know. Those little birds on Alternia. Stole anything shiny. Snagged them, if you will. Hence the name. Good in pies, too, also hence the name.”

“Yes, well, I didn't know the palace employed thieves,” you say, annoyed.

“Snagpie, do you still have what you took from him?” Drumrock asks calmly. Snagpie shakes her head. “Well, there you go,” Drumrock shrugs under her numerous shawls. “You got it all back. She's not a thief.”

Your mind reels in disbelief as Drumrock reaches out and unties Snagpie in one smooth motion.

“Run along now, dear,” Drumrock shoos Snagpie, and the servant departs post-haste. “Don't fret over it too much, she does this kind of thing all the time, but she always gives it back eventually,” she tells you.

“Why do you tolerate her antics?” you ask, one last desperate stab at finding logic and rationality.

“The world needs all sorts,” Drumrock replies. “Especially a world as boring as this one.”


	2. Chapter 2

While you were working dusk to dawn, you did not pay much attention to the strange manner of the locals. The workers you were given were adequate at their jobs, and so you did not question their quirks. In retrospect, you should have found it a bit odd that you were offered a bottle of cheap liquor within minutes of your arrival to the work site. At the time, you put it down to the fact that so many were much higher-blooded than you would have expected from mere laborers, and thus a lot more daring. Which, in retrospect, was also quite odd.

This whole place makes you shudder.

At any rate, you attend the party in your most impeccable dress uniform (the buttons that Snagpie ripped off had to be sewn back on, a task which you did not care to entrust to anyone else). And as you do, you look around and note, with some displeasure, the uncomfortably loose mingling of the bloods taking place.

Lady Drumrock, dressed in a gown which you are sure would be resplendent if any part of it could be seen past her many shawls, waves at you from across the room. She is the only seadweller here currently, but you note, with some dissatisfaction, that there are numerous greens in the room as well. It is unsettling, to say the least.

Ampora sweeps in soon enough, also in dress uniform, and in a cape with a collar so high, you suspect it requires boning to stay upright. He makes a short toast, most of which you don't even pay attention to, and then proceeds to mingle.

A teal and two blues fence you in with small talk, and you are stuck in the corner discussing weather for some length of time. Then Drumrock appears, and the three depart quickly.

“Having fun?” she asks, smiling her gap-toothed smile at you. It looks very sharp tonight.

“No,” you reply.

“Well, I won't hold it against you,” she says. “I suspect it's a muscle you don't exercise nearly as often. By the way, have you met my moirail?”

“I don't believe I've had the pleasure,” you say.

“Come on then,” she says, and offers you her arm. “If you're going to suck all the joy out of the air, might as well do it where I can talk to him.”

You have to crouch down a bit to take it. You have your misgivings, but Drumrock being the only person you actually know at this event, even in passing, makes refusing her quite awkward.

She pulls you along, and in your indignation, you fail to notice where she's taking you until you're already there.

Eridan Ampora is in the middle of telling a no doubt fascinating anecdote, judging by the looks of polite interest on the faces around him. He turns on his heel with a swish of the cape when he notices Drumrock.

“Grisel,” he says, looking down at Drumrock, “there you are!”

“Eridan, dear,” she says, her voice so ill-suited to sounding pleasant that it turns shrill, “is it true you and Zahhak here knew each other on Alternia?”

You most certainly never told her that.

“We were sweep mates,” he says casually, as if he wasn't the source of the information. “He was my kismesis' neighbor.”

“Startling coincidence!” Drumrock says, turning to look at you with a sharp smile.

“I somehow doubt that,” you grouse.

“How did you know about that, though?” Ampora asks her, looking puzzled.

She continues smiling and pats his cheek. She has to reach up, and he has to lean down a bit to meet her part of the way, but it's such a sudden an unexpected show of affection that you feel embarrassed to be witnessing it.

“I'll go scare up some decent conversation,” Drumrock says, and swans off in a flurry of shawls.

Ampora watches her go off with a calm and still mildly confused expression.

“Last I knew,” you begin, eager to interrupt whatever spell the old scarecrow had him under, “the Heiress was your moirail.”

Ampora snorts.

“When we were kids, yeah,” he says, shrugging a shoulder awkwardly. “That was a long time ago, Eq. What did we know? An' once we had to leave Alternia, it was either break up or attempt some kind a long distance thing, an' have you ever heard a somethin' like that workin'?”

“My moirail and I are doing quite well,” you say frostily.

Ampora's fins turn violet, and he adjusts his collar and clears his throat.

“Anyway,” he continues, “it was an amicable breakup an' such. She took it real well, in my opinion. I could tell she was apprehensive about it, but reason prevailed in the end.”

“Did it now,” you say as neutrally as possible.

“Yeah,” Ampora replies. “I mean, obviously she was really hung up on me, but I wasn't goin' to just lead her on with false hope, you know? I'm not that kind a troll.”

“And now there's Lady Drumrock,” you continue.

“Yeah, she's great, though, ain't she?” Ampora continues, smiling. “She really helped me pull myself together!”

“After the breakup which affected the Heiress so deeply.”

Ampora flushes, but keeps his expression even. He tilts his head down slightly, not enough to aggressively brandish his horns, but enough to show he's serious.

“I think Feferi an' me are both doin' a lot better apart than we ever did when we were together,” he says with finality. “We were never that great a fit as moirails, anyway. I always thought.”

You have the slightest twinge of suspicion that Ampora might have wanted Feferi in another quadrant, but it subsides soon enough. These sound like the ruminations of a troll trying to convince himself that the grapes were sour. Or perhaps parroting the words of comfort imparted upon him by a moirail seeking to spare his ego?

“Anyway, this assignment's great, an' I wouldn't be accomplishin' half the things I am without Gri-- uh. Lady Drumrock,” he continues.

“Yessss, our Lord Ampora has been busy, busy,” a languid voice interjects. Ampora stiffens a bit.

An indigoblood slips himself into your vicinity with all the grace of a greased-up serpent. He makes an odd sight, because his dress uniform is impeccable, while his face paint is smudged and carelessly applied. In your experience, it has always been the opposite with members of his caste. Whether dressed in rags or in blood-splattered uniforms, subjugglators never had anything less than lovingly applied facepaint. Even Makara, disgrace to his elevated bloodline though he was, always took care of his paint.

You recognize this one, though. You saw him bet on the sparring rustbloods during the festival.

“An' how are you this fine night, Debras?” Ampora asks, affecting an air of calm.

The indigo leers at Ampora, and then turns to look at you.

“Fine, fine,” he answers, but with his gaze still on you.

You straighten up and feel yourself grow damp under the scrutiny. It takes an effort of will not to burst into uncontrollable waves of sweat. It's been sweeps since your conscription. You've faced highbloods before and learned to take their scrutiny... not in stride, exactly, but you've gotten to the point where you're no longer at risk of humiliating yourself.

“Has our Lord Ampora been filling your head with tales of his own glory?” Debras asks with a slow sneer.

“He has not. We have only been discussing certain acquaintances,” you answer smoothly.

“Oh, and have I come up?” Derbas asks, turning an amused glance at Ampora.

“Matter of fact you haven't,” Ampora replies stiffly. “Equius, this is Servil Debras. He ran the place for a while before I got here. Debras, this is Equius Zahhak.”

“For a while, my,” Debras sighs dramatically. “I give over my life to serving the Empire for fourty-three sweeps, and all I get is 'he ran the place for a while'. But that's how life goes for poor Debras. No appreciation.”

You remain cautiously silent. Debras must be at the very least three times Ampora's age, and still he has not earned any sort of title. You do not want to think ill of him, but it's hard not to, under these circumstances.

“Stick around, and maybe you'll get some of that treatment too,” Debras tells you, trying to smile congenially. His smeared paint makes his face look crumpled. “'Meet Zahhak, he fixed up some thin's here and there',” Debras says, badly imitating Ampora's nasal twang. He breaks into chortles on the last syllable, amused by himself.

“Pardon me,” you say, and leave abruptly. The entire conversation has started to perturb you.

You find yourself out on a balcony, breathing in the damp air of pre-dawn. The sun is not as merciless on this planet. It's not until noon that it becomes unbearable to the troll eye. Nights are darker, however, as the planet does not have a natural satellite, and that has made public lighting a necessary thing.

The view from the balcony shows you most of the city. You look over it critically, going over the webwork of streetlights, finding tiny gaps where the pattern is broken. Lights malfunctioning? Not necessary? On this planet, probably stolen. You wonder idly just how far Snagpie's territory extends.

It's calming to think of other things, at least. The disgust Debras stirred in you is abating.

“Sorry about that guy,” Ampora's voice drifts towards you.

He joins you by the railing overlooking the city.

“This place fell to shit under his leadership,” Ampora says after a long silence. “In a lotta ways, I guess I should thank him. This wouldn't a been the opportunity it is for me if he hadn't been such an incompetent pest.”

“Opportunity?” you huff. “Ampora, this place is convenient storage for redundants and miscreants.”

“Well, yeah! Exactly my point!” he says, whipping a hand through the air in a decisive gesture. “I mean, if they gave me a cushy high-profile job in the Fleet countin' pencils or somethin', nobody woulda seen what I'm capable of! But if I fix this place up an' make it one a the shinin' jewels of the Empire, then,” he straightens back and fluffs out his cape smugly, “then they'll really see what I'm capable of.”

He smiles into the middle distance and straightens up, holding part of his cape over his arm. Good grief. He's posing. He's actually striking a pose. He's probably imagining the statue they'll be building of him. This is unbearable.

Even so, your respect for Ampora (previously nonexistent) actually rises a few notches. Well, only one notch; there's no point in exaggerating. You're pleasantly surprised to discover that he has no plans to wallow in either mediocrity or self-pity. It remains to be seen if he's capable enough to follow through on this plan.

“It would certainly be an experience to see what you can accomplish here,” you say.

Before Ampora can reply, Drumrock appears.

“Have you invited the boy to dinner yet?” she demands.

Ampora appears flustered all of a sudden.

“Grisel, please,” he says, gesturing for her to be quiet, but the brief panicked look he throws your way betrays him all the same.

“Well, has he?” Drumrock continues, turning to you.

“He has not,” you say.

“Then I will. Have dinner with us tomorrow night,” she says.

“I was under the impression I might begin my work again tomorrow night,” you say.

“Not until after dinner,” she says.

“Madam, I have no patience for these kinds of games. If your moirail cannot fill a quadrant without you breathing down his neck then maybe--”

“You think I'm trying to play matchmaker?” Drumrock interrupts you, amused.

“It-- I-- You mean to say you aren't?” you ask.

“Dear sweet horrorterrors, no,” she replies, bursting into a shrill laughter. “If quadrants were the issue here, I wouldn't be setting you up with this little guppy, I'd be keeping you all to myself!”

She punctuates this remark by reaching out with a speed that belies her age and _pinching your buttocks_. You only have time to yelp at the indignity before it's already over and you can do nothing but blush and try hard to maintain your composure.

“Then why?” you ask, your voice cracking on the last word the way it hasn't since early adolescence.

“We have things to discuss,” Drumrock says.

Ampora is too busy rubbing his temples with a pained grimace on his face to contribute to the conversation, but he nods.

 

*

 

It's not until you attempt to leave the party that you come across Debras again, in the hallway, propping up a wall, in the manner of hooligans and wastrels everywhere.

“Hey. Hey, Zahhak,” he says, and gestures you over.

Your feet take you towards him even as the rest of you wants to give him a wide berth and pretend you suffer from some kind of condition that makes you selectively fail to perceive him.

“So how is construction coming along?” he asks, grinning at you. “Still stalling?”

“It's fairly hard to miss that it has ceased,” you reply. “I'm told the noise carries.” The fact that it's happening so close to the city probably doesn't help much, either.

He snorts and lifts one of his claws to his horn, dragging the nail from the horntip down in a very evocative gesture: a sound so piercing it feels like nails-on-chalkboard inside one's skull. You almost wince.

“I hadn't known it was that bad,” you say. You're used to the sound, and you wear earplugs for the worst of it.

He shrugs.

“Too bad about it, though, eh?” he continues. “At this rate, you'll be on the planet for... oh, until you end up like the rest of us.”

A disturbing prospect, to say the least, but you are unlikely to ever allow yourself to degenerate so much, even if you were to be trapped here for millenia.

“I very much doubt that.”

“You _very much doubt that_?” he repeats in a mocking imitation of your voice. “You think you could just leave without Drumrock saying you can? The dried up old wader can do whatever she likes. And the rest of us have to do as she likes as well.”

Debras spits on the ground, as if his disgust boiled over and he had to rid himself of Drumrock's name in his mouth.

“See, you're already letting her have her way with you,” he sneers. “Just let her shut you down for no reason. Have some fucking pride, man.”

An acid rage fills you, of an intensity you haven't experienced since before you met Nepeta.

“Thank you for your input, sir,” you grit out. “I'll be sure to take precautions against the manipulations of suspect individuals seeking to further their own agendas.”

Debras looks pleased with himself as you slip back inside to the party.

You locate Drumrock rather easily. She is surrounded by sycophants who still have enough sense to keep a respectful distance, and that tends to take up a lot of floor space.

“Those things we were set to discuss,” you say as you approach her from the side and lean down to whisper near her ear. “Are they important?”

“Yes, one could say so,” she replies.

“Then perhaps we should bump up our meeting. Say, over breakfast.”

“Very well,” she agrees, smiling placidly.

You slip out once again. This time, Debras is no longer outside the door. Perhaps he's found a different wall in need of structural support.


	3. Chapter 3

Snagpie is sent the next evening to summon you to breakfast. After you climb out of your recuperacoon, you proceed to grab her by the ankles and shake her upside down. Out of her pockets falls a vast array of small valuable objects, some of which are your own. You make her gather everything up and then you recover your property from her plundered loot.

She doesn't seem to hold it against you, and laughs as she leaves. Well. Good thing _she's_ alright with being a petty thief, you suppose. You don't often meet people who are so pleased with their life choices, especially when they are abominably bad ones.

You shower and dress, and proceed to Ampora's suite for breakfast.

You find the table set, food already steaming in wait. Most things on the table are some variation of seafood, but nothing you recognize. Probably local. There are advantages to living on a planet with its own ocean; seadwellers from the Fleet usually have to import all their favorite foodstuffs.

You also note, with some satisfaction, that allowances have been made for your diet as well. There is even a jug of milk on the table.

But there's no sign of either Drumrock or Ampora, and you stand around awkwardly until they make their appearance through the same door.

Drumrock is as spry and awake as ever you saw her. Ampora, on the other hand, slinks out in only his shirtsleeves, rubbing at his eyes like a sleepy wriggler. His hair is still damp from washing, and his glasses are off.

You don't think you've ever seen him look this young even when you knew him on Alternia. Though perhaps it's because he's standing next to Drumrock. She could make a fossil look like a fresh-faced wriggler by comparison.

He waves at you vaguely and sits down at the table. Drumrock takes the seat adjacent to his, leaving you to take the one opposite Ampora.

“What are we here to discuss?” you ask right away.

Ampora snorts.

“Good mornin' to you too, Eq. What a nice evenin' we're havin'. Had a nice sleep? Yeah, me too. Glad we could have this chat before we jumped right into the only part that I'm fuckin' interested in talkin' about. I do so respect you as a person.”

“Are you done?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“Very well then. What are we here to discuss?”

Drumrock produces a stack of rolled-up papers from beneath her shawls and presents it to you. You accept the papers.

You read them as Ampora and Drumrock take their breakfast.

Once you get to the end, you begin again. And then skim over them once more, to make sure you didn't miss a page.

“What am I looking at?” you ask, finally throwing the papers to the table. The schematics are incomprehensible, and the written report clarifies absolutely nothing.

“If we knew, we wouldn't be in the position of askin' _you_ that, now would we?” Ampora replies.

“The former residents of this planet left a few things behind,” Drumrock explain as she takes a sip of tea.

“Guess their workmanship was a tad more resilient than they were,” Ampora shrugs. “Some a their weird alien technology pops up every now an' then, but this is the first time we've found somethin' so huge.”

“Because you've never excavated so near the city until now,” you surmise.

“What makes you think this thing is near the city?”Ampora tries to evade.

“Because you ordered me to stop construction. This reason at least makes more sense than 'because I need to relax',” you say, with a pointed look in Drumrock's direction.

“Well, you really are pretty high-strung,” Ampora starts, but trails off when you glare at him.

“Were you afraid I'd stumble upon it?” you ask, gesturing to the papers.

“You already did kinda stumble upon it. We have some, uh... loyal subjects among your digging crew?” Ampora says.

“You mean you have spies.”

“I mean we have some observant individuals with civic spirit. Is it really spyin' if we're interested what goes on in our own damn colony?”

“Yes.”

Ampora clears his throat.

“Anyway,” he says. “The thing is, this thing is kinda huge. Like, fuckin' ridiculous amount of huge we're talkin' about here. We don't know if it goes all the way to the planet core, but if it did, I wouldn't be surprised to hear it. You should have the resonance tests right over-- yeah, that page.”

You pick out the relevant page. The resonance test was inconclusive.

“The psychokinetic who conducted the test had to stop before she was done on account a her blood tryin' to leave her body all at once through her face,” Ampora explains. “Woulda burned herself out if someone didn't knock her out for her own good.”

“Is she a very good psychokinetic?”

“She's a fuckin' amazin' one, Eq, don't even ask me about that shit. We had to call in a huge fuckin' favor to get her off the cullin' rolls, but there ain't anythin' wrong with her brain.”

“So what do you want me to do?” you ask.

“Dismantle it,” Drumrock replies.

“Dismantle it?” You look at the schematics before you, frowning. “But you don't even know what it is or what it does. You don't even know if it's dangerous, or if dismantling it might have unforeseen consequences. Do you?”

“No,” Ampora admits. “But if you can figure it out--”

“Eridan,” Drumrock says warningly.

“No, but if he can figure it out,” Ampora insists, his voice taking on a pleading note, “we might be able to use it!”

“Or Debras might poke his nose in and make a mess,” she says.

“Oh yeah, that's the other half of it,” Ampora says. “Don't let anyone find out about it. Especially not Debras.”

“Any particular reason?”you ask. “Other than the obvious benefits of not interacting with him in general?”

“I see he's got you charmed too,” Ampora snickers.

“I find him an interesting case study. He must be remarkable in some regard if he's escaped culling up to this point.”

Ampora sighs and slumps in his chair, crossing his arms.

“I promised his kismesis I wouldn't off him until after the next drone season,” he admits reluctantly.

“And his kismesis would be...?”

Ampora jabs a finger towards the sky.

“Regional Fleet commander for this sector a space.”

“And when is the next drone season here?”

“Little over half a sweep.”

“I see. So you are saying that Debras' entire worth as an individual is hinged upon his future contribution to the slurry? Pardon my obscene observation.”

“No, you've got it right,” Drumrock says as she slathers fish paste over a slice of bread. “The only reason someone hasn't slit his throat where his blood won't stain the carpets yet is because nobody really wants to be obliterated from space over half a pail of jizz.”

Ampora chokes on his tongue. You fare not much better.

“Grisel!” he yells, scandalized.

Drumrock is unfazed.

“Oh, what,” she says flatly. “Like that's not what everyone is saying.”

“But back to the issue at hand,” Ampora says, loudly changing the subject, “what do you say, Eq? Are ya in?”

“No,” you respond firmly.

Ampora blinks.

“But--”

“Oh, rest assured,” you tell him, “I won't be revealing any of this information. If for no other reason,” and you eye Drumrock as you speak, “than because I don't want to get my... throat slit where my blood won't stain the carpets. But I don't want to be involved in any ridiculous scheme, either.”

“It's not ridiculous!” Ampora says. “An' besides, you're not gonna be able to continue construction with that thing blockin' your way!”

“I'll move the construction site,” you reply.

“Do you got any glubbin' idea how expensive that shit's gonna be?!” Ampora shrieks, throwing his hands up. “That added to everythin' we already sunk into the current site!” He makes a frustrated whining sound and grabs fistfuls of his own hair in a pose of tragic desperation. You find it quite comical.

“He's not going move the construction site, Eridan,” Drumrock says calmly. “He just needs some time to come around. Don't you, Zahhak?”

You try not to shrink back. You get the feeling that 'time to come around' means, in this particular case, time enough for Drumrock to corner you later and make some choice threats.

You clear your throat and gather up the papers.

“I will make study of the schematics in my quarters and get an answer to you soon.”

Drumrock is still looking at you through slitted eyes, but she doesn't stop you from departing.

It's only when you're already out the door that you realize you didn't even eat anything.

 

*

 

The staff in the food preparation block are jumpy and give you suspicious looks when you walk in, but once you explain your situation, they offer to put together a a meal for you and serve it to you on the terrace.

“I'm quite content to eat it here,” you say. “It's no bother to me.” Also Drumrock won't think to look for you here, and that is a definite plus at the moment, even though the notion of having these common servants staring at you as you eat is a chilling one.

“No, no, you wouldn't want that,” a teal servant tells you. “It's a safety hazard, you know.”

To emphasize the point, she picks up a spatula and clangs it against an oven, making the entire thing reverberate. There's a loud bang and a yelp as a troll pulls their head out of the open oven.

“What?!” the troll yells. “What?! It's not turning on! How am I supposed to bake anything without my oven, Betriz?! How?! Someone's going to have to shove their head in there eventually!”

“See? Safety hazard,” she says, then turns to the indignant troll. “Turn the goddamn gas off first, you jaundiced streak of cullfodder.” You notice now the pungent, sulfurous smell which should have warned the troll to the danger.

He looks queasy as he turns a knob on the oven.

“He has no sense of smell,” the teal explains. “No sense of self-preservation either, but at least without that, the only person he's endangering is himself.”

“I will have my breakfast on the terrace,” you say. The view is quite nice there, and the brisk evening air will stimulate your appetite.

“Excellent choice.”

 

*

 

Drumrock doesn't find you on the terrace. Ampora does. He is dressed in his full ensemble, including a violet cape fluttering dramatically in the weak breeze.

Your oatmeal turns sour in your mouth as you see him approach. He pulls out a chair and sits across from you.

“You didn't have to leave, you coulda stayed an' gotten your fill,” he says.

“That notion was unappealing at the time.”

“Because a Drumrock, right?” he asks, unusually jovial. “Yeah, she's kinda intimidatin'. She was already warlordin' all over Alternia when the Empress was still in pigtails.”

The image that appears in your mind is a bit disorienting and, you suspect, unpatriotic.

“The Empress wore her hair in pigtails?” you ask in a cautiously lowered voice.

“You know, I have no fuckin' clue,” Ampora shrugs. “I could never tell if she was jokin' about that or not.”

“I would ask you to control your lewd language in my presence.”

“What? C'mon, Eq, I swore a fuckload at breakfast, an' you didn't say a peep.”

You elect not to address that statement.

“Oh. So you were too afraid a Drumrock to upbraid me then?” he concludes with a smirk.

“You mean to say she doesn't frighten _you_?”

“Fuck yeah she does, bro, but if I let a little thing like bone-crushin' terror curtail my behavior, I'd never get anythin' done.”

“Hm.”

You continue eating. Ampora helps himself to some of your tea, pouring himself some in an empty glass.

“This is fish scale tea,” he observes, surprised. “I thought you had this whole thing about not eatin' meat?”

“I do not partake of the flesh of noble beasts,” you confirm. “Fish don't qualify as such.”

“Oh, come off it,” Ampora snorts.

“They are vile, slippery things which live in oceans.”

Ampora actually rolls his eyes at this.

“Eq, you're one confusin' an' contrary guy. Anybody ever tell you that?”

“Not in such mild terms, no.”

You frown for a moment, a question forming in your mind.

“And how did you get so closely acquainted with my eating habits? Through another set of civic-minded individuals, I presume?”

“Are you kiddin'? The gossip circuit on this planet is brutal. Who the fuck even needs spies when you got chatty cooks. Just let 'em loose an' you'll be eatin' intel for dessert.”

You give him one last mistrustful look before continuing to eat.

He sits with you quietly for a while. It isn't terrible.


	4. Chapter 4

“I want to have a look at this underground contraption,” you tell him once you're finished eating.

Ampora looks pleasantly surprised. Worse yet, he looks hopeful.

“That doesn't mean I agree to go along with your... plan.” And you use that word loosely. “It only means I will do anything necessary to resume construction.”

“I'll have Markop take you to the thing,” he says. “She's the one who conducted the resonance test. Just make sure she doesn't try for a re-do.”

“Is she liable to try again so soon?”

Ampora looks thoughtful for a few seconds.

“You know what, I'll send you with Sandhaul instead,” he says. “You know him, right?”

You do. During construction, you had to give Shoveler Sandhaul several citations for being drunk on the job. He stuck them in the ribbon of his hat. Not even a hardhat, just a regular hat. You were going to cite him for that too, but you couldn't find any regulation enforcing the use of hardhats, probably because any troll not adequately invested in their own safety was not worth protecting from themselves.

“I don't suppose there's anyone else available,” you say.

“Okay, not Sandhaul then. _I_ could go with you,” he says suddenly.

“No.”

“But--”

“No.”

“Eq--”

“Do you even know where the site is?”

“Sure I do! What do you take me for? It's east. East-ish. Over there somewhere,” he gestures vaguely in the wrong direction. “I can hear it from my office even with the window closed.”

“Ah, then I suppose you'll follow the sound of construction to find it.”

He quiets for a few moments, working his jaw as if testing out replies. He breaks down much quicker than you expect.

“Come on, Eq, just take me along,” he says, resorting to wheedling. “I just wanna go see the alien apocalyptic death engine. We don't even gotta tell Drumrock, she wouldn't let me go anyway!”

“Death engine?” you repeat, alarmed.

“I dunno, what else could it be?” he shrugs. “Just take me to the construction site, I can find it after that. I got real good descriptions a where it's located.”

“Ampora--” you start.

“Nah, just call me Eridan,” he says.

“Yes, thank you,” you scoff, “for doing me the courtesy of informing me we are _both_ on first-name basis. Truncated first name, even!”

If he picks up on the reprimand, he makes no indication of it.

“Eq, please,” he says. You think he's going to reach out and tug on your sleeve piteously any moment now.

“Let's return to the issue of the alleged doomsday device for a moment,” you say.

“I'm just makin' some assumptions,” he shrugs. “I dunno what it actually is. It's up to you to find that out.”

“Let's imagine that I do, and that your speculation proves correct,” you say. You don't have to continue before Ampora catches on to your meaning.

“I'm not gonna use it on this planet, Eq! Holy fuck, why would I?”

“Why wouldn't you?” you retort. “I seem to recall you pursued the death of land dwellers with quite some verve back on Alternia.”

“Yeah, but that was kiddy stuff! I wouldn't go through with it _now_. Even back then, I wouldn't a killed all the land dwellers. I did have hatefriends on land, you know! And a kismesis!”

He pulls his cape closer around him, defensive.

“An' it's different here, all these people are my responsibility,” he says, voice lower and a bit embarrassed. “Such as they are, they're my loyal subjects. An' I promised I wouldn't blow 'em up. I had to sign a legally bindin' document an' everythin'. If I end up killin' them, I'm not eligible for command again for fifty sweeps.”

“A binding document not to kill your loyal subjects,” you repeat in a deadpan.

“Apparently some people I knew way back when thought I might be a liability or somethin', 'cause of all the things I used to say about killin' all landdwellers.” He shrugs. “Liars and slanderers, the lot of 'em.”

“Yes, the truth is often slanderous when looked upon objectively,” you snort.

“An' I got a new moirail now, too! Can't you tell how pacified I am?”

You look upon his earnest expression.

“You are holding out hope that the arcane alien device that has just been discovered is a doomsday machine,” you point out.

“Yeah, but that's only 'cause I need some excitement in my life,” he says. “It's got nothin' to do with killin' everyone. Maybe just some people, but even those guys I'd kill more slowly over time, not all at once, an' I wouldn't need any ridiculous piece a machinery for that.”

You could continue arguing this point, but looking at Ampora, he doesn't strike you as someone willing to annihilate his entire power base. Much like you, he's had to put certain things aside to function as a citizen of the Empire, and that's something you can at least trust in.

“If you want to visit the site,” you say, “it will have to be after I've gone and assessed the situation. And only if I deem it safe.”

He grins at you, and the tips of his fins turn violet.

“Aw, that's pretty damn sweet a you, to be concerned about my safety like that,” he says.

“It's not you I'm concerned about, it's the rest of us,” you grouse. “I don't want you groping around cluelessly and pressing some button that will wipe out half the planet.”

“I know how to keep my hands to myself!” he says indignantly.

“Then you can keep them to yourself in your office, as you wait for me to confirm we'll be safe letting anywhere near the thing.”

Ampora actually pouts for a few moments, before gathering himself up.

“Fine,” he says. “I can see how havin' one's superior watchin' you work can be a stressful experience, an' I don't want anyone feelin' like I don't trust my own people to know how to do their jobs. I'll wait for your initial report before I decide when to drop in for a hands-on inspection.”

He manages to look more dignified than petulant, which you suppose is better than having to endure a tantrum from him.

“Very well,” you acquiesce. “I will go there tonight.”

 

*

 

Despite how easy it might have been to convince Ampora that he should stay back, you realize he still managed to have his revenge when both Sandhaul and Ladira Markop meet you just outside the construction site.

Sandhaul is exactly as he is during work hours, save for his eyes being a bit more bloodshot and his gait more uncertain. His ugly, crumpled brown hat still has the citations you gave him tucked into its ribbon, like a monument to his own insolence. He's green-blooded, shading a bit into lime, but carries himself like a troll several shades cooler. The fact that this unsavory individual managed to earn a title while Debras didn't makes you almost vibrate with outrage, though you're not sure at which one of them.

Ladira Markop is yellow, and she weaves uncertainly when she walks, but with the hint of psychic burnout rather than drunkenness. You have a hard time believing she's still functional, especially with the blank, unfocused stare she gives you. She emanates an unpleasant odor, like ozone and burnt hair, and while you are understanding when it comes to issues of personal hygiene, you have the feeling it's not even a physical smell, just a psychic aura that clings to her and bypasses the olfactory centers altogether.

“Don't worry, she's always like this,” Sandhaul informs you when he sees you appraising Markop's unsteady walk.

“Lord Ampora informed me there was nothing wrong with her brain,” you say, and you don't feel bad appending that title to Ampora's name when Sandhaul clearly needs to be reminded of the proper order of things.

“There _isn't_ anything wrong with my brain!” she says, sounding surprisingly alert and sober. She gives an unfocused glare into the middle distance. “How did my brain even come up? Who just sits around talking about other people's brains? Ugh, freaks.”

“My apologies,” you say, bemused. “We were discussing the fact that you were slotted for culling, I believe...?”

“Oh, that wasn't for her thinksponge defects,” Sandhaul says, a cruel gleam in his eye. “She was gonna get culled for reproductive insufficiency.” He sing-songs the last two words.

Markop growls and flails her arm out, managing to smack Sandhaul in the face with the back of her hand while he's too busy laughing to pay attention. It doesn't stop his guffaws, but her foot crushing his does make them slow a bit.

“Yes, quite,” you say, because at this point you would be happy to let them clobber each other to death.

Sandhaul's laughter trails off.

“Now listen--” Markop begins, then frowns and turns her head towards Sandhaul. “This him?” She gestures towards you up and down, as if trying to encompass your entire body.

“Yeah, sure. Follow the blue,” Sandhaul says, pointing to the sign on your chest. “Big guy, black muscle shirt, blue sign on his chest. No uniform today, eh, Boss?” He smiles up at you cheekily.

You aren't wearing a uniform, no. This isn't technically official business, and you thought the uniform would draw too much attention. The only thing you brought along is a folder with the report on the alien device.

“What is this foolishness?” you ask, but Markop, for the first time, focuses her eyes on you. You frown at her, not sure how to formulate the next question.

“Nothing wrong with her eyes, strictly speaking,” Sandhaul interjects. “She just can't make sense of anything she sees. It's all just shapes and colors to her.”

“Is that his face?” she asks, pointing at your chin.

“Bit higher,” Sandhaul indicates.

“What, really?” She narrows her eyes at you, looking you up and down. “Yeah, you're right about the big part. Is one of his horns shorter than the other?”

You abstain from reaching out to cover your broken horn, which you suddenly feel very self-conscious about for no reason.

“I'm assuming Ampora must not know about your... interesting condition,” you say, “or else he wouldn't have told me there was nothing wrong with your brain.”

“Hah! That guy.” Markop shakes her head. “I clipped a desk and fell down the first time I met him, and he just thought I was too awed by his presence to pay attention where I was going.”

“Best boss we ever had,” Sandhaul says, nodding reverently. “Oblivious as fuck. And is that really too much to ask?”

“I'm sorry to be such a disappointment,” you say acidly.

Sandhaul responds with only a wistful sigh.

“It's alright,” he says, voice resigned.

You can feel yourself break into sweat as your rage flares, so you instead turn your back on them and fling open the gates, easily breaking off the lock with your bare hands.

“Let's proceed,” you say, “before Shoveler Sandhaul can experience yet more bitter letdowns in life.”

 

*

 

It's nothing but solid metal that you can see. The round hole in the soft earth reveals a scuffed and dented metal casing with no visible means of ingress.

“How do we get in?” you ask.

Sandhaul shrugs. Markop is busy picking out something from between her teeth.

“There must be a way to get in,” you say. “The report I got had schematics, however crude.”

“Oh, yeah, I probably wrote that,” Markop says, raising her hand. “I sketched some things out after the first resonance test.”

You pull out the report.

“You wrote this?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

“If you don't mind me asking... how?”

Markop blinks.

“I typed it?” she offers uncertainly. She's not sure what you're asking.

“I meant, given your unique condition...”

“Oh! Well, I can read and write just fine,” she says. “And I have a better grasp of where commas go than most.”

You make a non-committal noise and take another look at the schematics. They seemed nonsensical to you at first, but knowing that they were made by someone who has no grasp of how shapes work when seen by a typical troll, and knowing that she never even saw, but sensed these things through a psychic outreach, you begin to feel reassured. In fact, you are beginning to hope that the device might not be as alien as the schematics lead you to believe, and thus you might not be completely out of your element.

“We're going in,” you say.

“Should I get my shovel?” Sandhaul asks. He doesn't snicker outright, but it's close enough.

“No need,” you say, handing the folder to Markop. She fumbles with it a bit before getting a good grasp on it, and looks curiously in your general direction.

You reel back and punch the metal hull. The entire exposed surface bends inward at the assault, but not as much as you'd like. Markop flinches and Sandhaul emits a startled, high-pitched yelp at the deafening sound.

You punch it again and again. It takes a good dozen blows before the hull breaks open, and your fist is sore and bloody by then. You kick at it the rest of the way. Nothing but impenetrable darkness below.

“Fetch lights,” you order Sandhaul, who looks unusually pale and meek. He nods and runs off.

“Got any psychic in you?” Markop asks, looking down at the warped metal with admiration. You have to wonder what she's even seeing.

“No.”

She opens her mouth again, but you interrupt.

“If the next words coming out of your mouth are 'want some?',” you say, “I am going to write you up.”

She closes her mouth with a harrumph.

“I don't even work for you,” she mutters to herself, just barely loud enough for you to hear, but offers no additional comments after that.

You descend into the belly of the strange alien device buoyed by optimism and a strange sense of wonder.

You re-emerge later bitter and with the newly acquired knowledge that Markop's drawings were a lot more accurate than you would have wished.


	5. Chapter 5

Upon your return, Drumrock is the first to cross your path.

“What's the word, Zahhak?” she asks, and by her tone and cheerful demeanor, you can tell she knows exactly where you've been most of the night.

“Dismantling it shall have to be,” you reply, and breeze past her.

Ampora, unfortunately, is just down the next corridor, and insists you come into his office to report.

“There isn't really all that much to say,” you tell him, but he insists to such a degree that you realize it would be easier to simply go along with him. You trail after him reluctantly.

“Don't worry, my office is secure,” he assures you as he seats himself behind his desk. He gazes pointedly up at the ceiling and then around the office, to signify there are no listening devices. Or perhaps he's following the flight path of some stray insect; his theatrics can get hard to read at times.

You clear your throat.

“We might have to move the construction site anyway,” you say. “The device seems to be massive enough that removing it will leave a... considerably sized crater. If the costs of removing it are even worth the effort, which by my calculations they wouldn't be.”

Ampora's face falls. He slumps back in his chair like a troll who has just seen all his hopes smashed before him like so much delicate china.

“Did Markop tell you that?” he asks.

“No, I did not permit her to conduct any more tests,” you say. “But you said it yourself that you wouldn't be surprised to hear the device went down to the planet core and now I wouldn't be either.”

“Alright,” Ampora allows grudgingly, “but what about the thing itself? Can you figure out how it works?”

“How it works?” you huff. “I can't even tell if it's even a real device of any sort! For all I know, it could be a pretentious piece of modern art! It would certainly make more sense as one! 'The Vexation of Zahhak', an installation displaying the infinite potential of the alien mind to induce rage aneurysms into defenseless mechangineers!”

You rub a hand over your face.

Ampora rises from his seat and walks around the desk. He leans back on it, folding his arms and gazing at you thoughtfully. His attempts at looking casual are somewhat foiled by the lengths of cape awkwardly crumpling at his back.

“That why you punched it?” Ampora asks after a few moments of silence.

You frown.

“No, I got the punching out of the way first,” you answer. “How did you know...”

He points to your hand. Your knuckles are crusted over with blood and beginning to bruise quite nastily. You forgot about the injury; it barely even hurts anymore.

“Ah,” you say, and anger drains out of you, leaving behind only tiredness and lingering discontent.

“ _I_ know a thing or two about modern art,” Ampora says coyly.

“Ampora--”

“Eridan,” he corrects.

You sigh.

“Eridan,” you say, pronouncing his name like you'd pronounce the name of some strange medicine, “you can dang well go and have a picnic in that gosh-darned thing, as far as I care.”

Eridan, who perhaps expected you to shoot down the suggestion and insist he stay put, bursts into unexpected peals of laughter. You are surprised at first, a bit wary, used as you are to be the butt of some people's jokes, but Eridan pinches the bridge of his nose and his laughter starts shading into hysteria, and you realize he's not laughing at you.

“This colony's goin' to be in debt until I'm as old as Grisel,” Eridan wheezes out between heaving sobs of laughter. “They'll be lootin' my corpse to cover the interest.”

You look around the office and think about what an opportune time this would be for Drumrock to appear.

“Pawnin' off my rings-- can you imagine--” Eridan's words are momentarily lost in a breathless gasp, “Can you imagine that git Debras buyin' my rings an' tryin' to fit them on his scraggly bugleg fingers--”

“I can more more easily imagine Debras cutting off your fingers and absconding with your rings entirely,” you say grimly, and for some reason this makes Eridan laugh even harder.

You push him towards one of the chairs in front of his desk and he falls into it, sprawling limply as he begins winding down.

“He would, you know,” Eridan says after his laughter trails off, voice still a bit shaky. “He'd do it while I was still alive if he could.”

There's a strange warbling to his Ws, and you recall now that on the few occasions you spoke as youths on Alternia, he had an antiquated seadweller accent. You'd completely forgotten about it until now, and the revelation almost makes you forget who he is talking about.

“You need a better class of enemies,” you remark.

He spasms like he's about to burst into laughter again, but only shakes his head.

“He doesn't even count as an enemy proper,” Eridan says. “Just a rabid barkbeast I can't shoot yet 'cause the owner only cares that it's pedigreed.”

There's a lag in the conversation after that remark, and the silence makes you uncomfortable. Eridan is staring into space as he sits in the chair, fidgeting with his rings, turning them thoughtfully. You feel awkward standing up, looming over him like this, but you'd feel almost more awkward sitting down.

You mentally fumble for something to say and fill the silence.

“It would be a bad place for a picnic,” you say, and it's not until Eridan looks up at you with a baffled expression that you realize he has no idea what you're talking about. “The-- the device, when I said you could have a picnic, I-- it's not-- it's quite-- I didn't mean literally.”

You cough.

“Yeah, I kinda figured,” Eridan says, beginning to smile. “I mean, that was some pretty harsh language comin' from you, Eq. I was pretty darned shocked to hear that from you. But don't worry, I won't let the things you said in the heat a the moment spoil our friendship.”

You give him a flat stare. You've had your speech patterns mocked before, but this doesn't feel like it has any malice behind it.

“This place has been a bad influence on me,” you say. “Pretty soon, I might even begin to use the... F-word.” Eridan looks doubtful until you lean towards him and clarify in a whisper, “ _Fiddlesticks_.”

He bursts into giggles, a truly joyful sound this time.

 

*

 

At a loss for what to do, you could very well have ended up in your guestblock, obsessively pinging Nepeta for the rest of the night and well into the day, until you were too tired to stay awake. You don't know if it's time difference or simply that she's been on assignment, but you haven't spoken to her in a week, and though you've gone longer without her before, you were never under such unique stress until now.

As it were, you are summoned to Drumrock's office.

It's just outside her door that you have the nasty realization that you don't dislike Eridan Ampora as much as you'd want to. The shock of this revelation makes you clench the door handle so hard that it snaps off in your hand.

Drumrock looks at the impromptu act of vandalism and gives a slow blink.

“Lad,” she says, “you need to get yourself a nice firm pap, because pretty soon we're not going to be able to afford repairs.”

Luckily, you're so flustered by this comment that you forget the first thing that flustered you. You drop the handle heavily on her desk and wipe your damp hands on your trousers.

“My moirail is-- out of reach,” you say, then, recalling that this is none of Drumrock's business, you move on to another, more pressing concern. “I take it I'm here because you've heard about the... situation?”

Drumrock nods, for once not having anything to say.

“Why even invest in this project? Surely even--” You almost say Eridan before you realize how strange it would feel to call him that while talking to Drumrock. “Even Ampora had to have realized how potentially disastrous it could turn out.”

Drumrock gives you a sour grin.

“It was Debras,” she replies. “He knew he was on the outs and wanted to leave his successor with one last financially disastrous project to deal with.”

“That sounds like an unusually subtle plan for Debras, given what I've seen of the man.”

Drumrock shrugs.

“You know the old saying,” she says. “Even a blind nut creature finds the jugular once in a while.”

You grunt in disgust.

“We decided to call his bluff,” she continues, “and go on with the project. Make something worthwhile of it. Now I suppose the choice is between moving the site and incurring extra debt we have no guarantee of ever clearing, or cutting our losses and abandoning the whole project altogether, and then working at paying off the debt we've already managed to wrack up. And let me tell you,” she smiles dourly, “I'm glad I'm not in charge of the Treasury anymore.”

“And I assume I am to wait here until you decide on your course of action.”

“Cheer up, Zahhak,” she tells you. “Think of it as a vacation. I bet the Artifixers don't give you much leave.”

“I don't require much anyway,” you reply.

“No, you don't seem like the shore leave type,” she says, giving you an appraising look.

You're reminded just now of a niggling question you've had since talking to Eridan earlier.

“How did you know we knew each other on Alternia?” you ask. “Ampora and I. He was surprised you knew that about us.”

Drumrock leans forward and props her chin on her fist, planting her elbow on her desk. Her eyes go half-lidded in thought. She looks old—which is to say, she always looks old, offensively so at times, but something in her demeanor changes.

“He holds himself differently,” she answers after a while. “Like he's a wriggler with something to prove. Which he actually is most of the time, but he usually hides it better than he does around you.”

It's distressing how much you understand that sentiment.

“Now how about you sit down and tell me all about the alien litter at the heart of our problems, hm?” Drumrock says, perking up again. “Ladira gave her report earlier.”

“Did Sandhaul report as well?” you ask, amused by the mental image of him even attempting to backtalk to Drumrock.

“What, he was there too?” Drumrock says, snorting.

“Was he not meant to be?” you say.

“No. Well, nobody sent him, but him and Ladira are...” Drumrock makes an ambiguous gesture, as if saying 'Quadrants, you know', except without any surety about which quadrants are involved exactly. You have a vivid mental image of Nepeta's eyes brightening in interest. Your bloodpusher pangs in sudden, dizzying longing. “They follow each other around. It's no matter, he was the one to uncover the machine anyway.”

“I take it the number of people who know about it is limited,” you say.

“And we intend to keep it that way,” she says. “Now. Report.”

You sit down, setting aside the confused knot of emotions you can't untangle just now in favor of a logical recitation of facts. You can think about unexpected friends and absent moirails later; you've certainly got the time for it.


	6. Chapter 6

The next few nights are empty. You write a hefty report on your situation and propose several courses of action in relation to the alien device, perhaps none of which are economically feasible enough to implement.

As a last resort, you look into the usual recourse when a colony goes over its allotted budget for the sweep, but reading about debt bondage and forcible liquidation of private property and outright culling is doing nothing to reassure you, and would probably do even less to reassure Eridan. If there is a clever solution to this problem, you hope it is a mechanical one, so that you might have a hope of finding it.

Once your eyes start aching with strain and your head pounding in pain at every beat of your pulse, you are interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

“Come in,” you say, not bothering to rise from your seat.

To your surprise, it is Snagpie who pokes her horns in.

“Hullo,” she says, giving you one of her ingratiating smiles. “Lady Drumrock sent me to give you a message.”

You wave her in. She closes the door behind her and pads up to your desk.

“She says how Lord Ampora's feeling down lately and he could use some perking up so if you could please go take him drinking thank you she'd be very grateful and probably won't do anything nasty to you for a laugh.”

Snagpie prattles this all so rapidly, you have to go over it again and place some mental commas before you can parse what she's saying. Snagpie takes this time to pick up a writing implement from your desk and casually fiddle with it. You watch her like a predatory swooping bird.

“Why does Lady Drumrock not take Ampora out for a drink herself?” you ask. “She is his moirail.”

“She said you'd ask that and she also said to say she doesn't mean that kind of drink she means the nasty ones that leave you feeling concussed when you wake up three nights later.”

Snagpie shakily takes the cap off the pen, lets it drop on the desk top. Her fingers twitch uncertainly. You can feel the urge to pocket the pen emanating off her in nervous waves. Your gaze does not falter.

“And when does Lady Drumrock say this meeting is to take place?” you ask.

Snagpie's fingers twitch around the pen as her arm shakes all the way up to her shoulder.

“Tonight! As soon as possible,” she says.

“Thank you,” you say. “You are dismissed.”

With effort that seems gargantuan, even from where you're sitting, Snagpie extends her hand and, unclenching each finger one agonizing millimeter at a time, lets the pen drop on the desk. You think you hear a whimper when it hits the surface.

You hum approvingly. She turns on her heel stiffly and flees the block.

Your sense of victory is dampened once you start looking for the pen's cap and can't find it anywhere.

 

*

 

You find Eridan holed up in his office, hunched over his desk. It looks messier than you've ever seen it, and when you come close you glimpse calculations. He shoves the papers aside, covering them with his hands while pretending he's not hiding anything at all.

“I was informed you might be in need of inebriation,” you say.

“I'm in need of about half a billion caegars,” he replies.

“Then I suppose I'll be buying.”

He chuckles humorlessly as he takes off his glasses to rub his eyes.

“Drumrock sent you, didn't she?” he says.

“Obviously. I had the good sense to assume you would leave the calculations to someone with an actual grasp of economics.”

He opens a drawer and shoves all his papers inside it, scowling.

“I have a fine fuckin' head for economics!” he says.

“Yes, I'm sure your impending destitution took quite some talent to achieve,” you say. “Do you want to come or not?”

He hunches over his desk and his hands move around for a few seconds, searching for papers that aren't there anymore. He recovers swiftly, rising up calmly and adjusting his clothing as if that is what he had in mind from the start.

“A course I wanna come,” he says, tilting his chin up with as much dignity as he can muster.

“Lead the way,” you reply, and it's fortunate he does, because you don't know a single drinking establishment on this entire planet.

 

*

 

You're not in the habit of drinking. Alcohol makes you nervous through its very presence. The first time you went out drinking, shortly after conscription, with Nepeta and a posse of her new hatefriends, you were so nervous about losing control of yourself and damaging everything and everyone around you, that you snapped a table in half before a drop even passed your lips.

Since then, you've been the designated cullspotter for any group you've ever joined on a social outing involving drinking. You are pleased that not a single person died on your watch, despite many of them making their best effort.

When you think about it, this is the first time you've ever gone out with only one person at a time. You feel a slight twinge of nervousness, the fear of Eridan taking it the wrong way if you won't drink. You swallow it down, but it feels like a wire sponge down your gullet.

Eridan takes you to a small tavern adjacent to the palace. It's old, but clean, and everyone keeps to themselves, nursing their drink without much attention to other patrons. Conversation is kept at a low hum.

Eridan stops at the counter and the bartender gives him a nod in recognition.

“Gimme somethin' in the paint-thinner range,” Eridan says.

“Bad day out here in the boondocks, eh, governtagonizer?” the oliveblooded bartender replies, uncorking a bottle.

“This is what you lot do every day, drivin' me to drink,” Eridan says.

The bartender laughs. You're a bit surprised at how genuine it sounds. He pours Eridan a glass, and Eridan knocks it back instantly. He gets a refill without even asking; the bartender just continues laughing.

He almost pours you a glass before you lift your hand to stop him.

“Something that isn't an intoxicant, please,” you say.

The bartender freezes in place, and then his gaze shifts to Eridan. You realize that he's trying to determine if Eridan trusts you enough, and you have to stop yourself from bristling at the presumption.

Eridan nods, and the bartender takes out a bottle of pink stuff and pours you a tall glass.

“Just keep 'em comin', Til,” Eridan tells the bartender.

You take your drinks to a table in the corner. Eridan nurses his drink this time, taking slow sips.

Your pink drink isn't bad either. It's some kind of fruit juice, if you had to guess. Bits of pulp float in your glass.

“You've been here before,” you say, because one usually converses with one's drinking partner in these situations.

“Yeah, I come here whenever I need to get in touch with the concerns a the common folk,” Eridan says.

“Ah. And what are the concerns of the common folk?”

“Well, just lookin' around this room,” Eridan says, “I'd say most a them right now involve booze.”

“Your innate powers of leadership astound me.”

He smiles a little at that.

“What about you, Eq?”

“What about me?”

“What's eatin' you up inside?”

You frown as you look down at him.

“Why would you assume anything is eating any part of me at all, internal or otherwise?”

Eridan taps a finger against his glass impatiently and gives you a blunt look.

“I haven't spoken to my moirail,” you say slowly. “It hasn't been a terribly long time, you understand. But I've been wanting to speak to her.”

Eridan is quiet for a few moments, and you wonder if you should brace yourself for some kind of insensitive comment, or misplaced advice. In retrospect, you regret the confession, as small as it was, because it can easily be construed as proof that you are succumbing to instability.

“That sucks, man,” Eridan says after a while.

“Yes, it does,” you reply as neutrally as you can.

The bartender comes to refill Eridan's drink.

“Better just leave the bottle, Til,” Eridan says.

“Sure. Both bottles?” he asks, giving you a petulant look.

“Yeah, we're gettin' messed up tonight,” Eridan says. “Especially my friend here,” he continues in a stage whisper, “he's had the kinda night which really calls for a whole bottle a top shelf freshly squeezed.”

The bartender smirks knowingly.

“I'm suddenly glad I didn't order milk,” you say.

“Please never do,” Eridan says. “The way Til squeezes those fruit already skirts pretty close to breakin' public decency laws. I'm sure if he had some defenseless animal to do it to, I'd be gettin' some strongly-worded petitions.”

You snort.

But after that, you fall into conversation easily. He tells you amusing anecdotes from his time in office, and even though you get the sense many have been edited to make him look better, you don't mind that terribly. You are not forthcoming with any topics liable to expose you to ridicule either. You tell him about your life as an artifixer, while carefully skimming past the more humiliating incidents early in your career, and you tell him about Nepeta and some of the unexpectedly enjoyable things you've done together since leaving Alternia.

It's pleasant, simply sitting and talking. Eridan is, to your surprise, tolerable even in moderate doses.

He makes his way dutifully through two thirds of the bottle before he excuses himself to make use of the facilities.

Since you've arrived, the tavern has grown louder and more crowded. Looking at the time, you realize it has been hours since you arrived, and the sun has most likely already risen by now. If you want to avoid the noon glare, you need to leave soon.

You feel a cold pang of apprehension out of nowhere. A clammy hand is placed on your shoulder, and you just barely stop yourself from destroying everything and everyone in your immediate vicinity with a startled spasm of your leg.

“Cozying up to Ampora, eh, Zahhak?” Debras' mocking voice hisses in your ear.

“You mistake lack of repulsion with sycophancy,” you reply. “An easy mistake, I suppose, when one has experienced a great deal of the latter and not enough of the former.”

He chuckles, as if he hasn't even heard your words.

“Really,” he says, removing his offensive grasping appendage from your person, “I should think you had enough sense to realize Drumrock's the real golden ticket here. Maybe if she likes you enough, she'll even make you governtagonizer! History does have an unfortunate stutter.”

Debras oozes around you and occupies Eridan's seat. He picks up Eridan's half-empty glass and sniffs delicately at it. He scowls a bit, not at the glass so much as at the owner, but then downs the contents. You realize from his bloodshot eyes and loose motions that it's not his first drink of the night.

“Though maybe you're here on Drumrock's say-so after all,” he says. “Goodness knows our darling Lord Ampora couldn't fill a quadrant for the life of him. Not that I'm complaining, of course! Why, I'd consider his lack of contribution to the incestuous slurry his greatest contribution to society.”

“Whereas your donation to the Mother Grub is the greatest plight society has had to suffer so far,” you say matter-of-factly.

“I'm sure he's told you quite the tales about me,” Debras says, exposing his teeth. The paint around his mouth is smeared even more than usual, and washed away from his lips, exposing the gray of his skin. You can see past all of his poorly-worn masks now.

“I would not know you existed had I not met you personally,” you reply.

“Yes, I'm sure,” Debras replies, voice dripping with condescension. “I suppose I will have to find a drinking buddy who is a bit more aware of my existence, then.”

He looks around.

“Like Sandhaul!” Debras declares, waving at the greenblood.

Sandhaul, seated at a table with a bottle all of his own, turns his head when he hears his name, but he looks startled as he glances over and sees Debras. He pulls his hat down over his eyes and leaves the room at a good clip.

Debras freezes in place, a shocked look on his face. His hand lowers slowly.

It's mean-spirited, but you can't help it; great bellows of laughter escape you, and though you would usually be more graceful than to compound another troll's humiliation like this, the very thought that even the drunkard Shoveler Sandhaul would avoid Debras is such a cruel twist to the entire affair, you admire the universe's merciless sense of humor.

Eridan appears just as your laughter settles down, and Debras' face becomes a stony facade.

“What's so funny?” Eridan asks, looking from you to Debras in mild alarm.

“Nothing important,” you say, and rise. “We should pay and depart.”

“It's paid for,” Eridan says. “It's on my tab.”

He looks at Debras, who is looking into the distance, ignoring Eridan.

“Very well then,” you say, and guide Eridan towards the door.

He walks very slowly, very precisely, and looks over his shoulder at Debras only once.

“What was so funny?” he asks again, lower and more worried than curious. He wibbles his Ws this time. _Wwhat wwas so funny?_

By the acidic stench of vomit on his breath and the dampness of his face, you conclude Eridan is far more drunk than he's willing to show. You lend him your arm and he grasps it tightly, and as you move this way, you realize he is very carefully reminding himself which foot needs to be put forward next.

“Nothing was funny,” you say. “Tragic would have been the better word for it.”

He looks all the way alarmed now. You pat his arm in what you hope is a comforting manner. You don't know what else to do.

It's past sunrise, but overcast enough that only Eridan is squinting in the light. You are through the palace gates without incident and halfway to the door when Eridan just blurts out,

“I don't want you to be friends with him!”

You try not to sigh too heavily.

“I don't want to be friends with him either,” you say. “I'm glad we could reach a compromise.”

“I'm serious!” Eridan continues. “Serious as fuckin' bloodpusher arrest! Sorry, language, whatever.” _Wwhatevver_ , he actually says.

“Eridan,” you say slowly.

“An' I don't mean like I'm forbiddin' you anythin', s'not like I'm givin' you an order here, I'm just expressin' my preference, but if you had to be friends with that guy, I'd probably have to just crawl under a rock an' fuckin' die, 'cause I'd have to stop bein' friends with you, an' that's just not a thing I can do right now.”

You remind yourself not to facepalm. You are wearing shades, you would completely obliterate them if you did that.

“You are extremely drunk,” you say.

“No, I'm not!” Eridan snaps back immediately.

“You are drunk enough to think I'd choose be friends with Debras. I'm sorry if the adjective for that kind of drunk is stronger than 'extremely', but my vocabulary doesn't extend that far. Possibly nobody's vocabulary extends that far.”

“Oh...” Eridan breathes out, sagging against you in relief. He squeezes you arm gratefully.

The stairs are slightly harder to navigate, and Eridan isn't trying as hard to hide his disgraceful state, so you need to instruct him on the proper climbing technique. You are at his door when he turns to you with a smile on his face.

“Actually, I think Kar might a had good enough vocabulary for that,” he says, a far-away look on his face.

“Do you mean Karkat Vantas?” You remember the scoundrel Nepeta used to have an ill-advised infatuation with.

“Mh. You knew 'im too. Tha's good. He woulda had words.”

“Most of them foul, of course.”

“A course!”

He smiles at you as he places both his hand on your shoulders. Then his face turns very serious.

“I'm really glad,” he says, “that you don't wanna be Debras' friend.”

“Yes, I got that.”

“Just...” Eridan frowns as he tries to find words. “Fuck 'im. Fuck that guy.”

It's such a sincere, unguarded expression of sentiment, that you chuckle, even despite his profanity.

“You need to go to sleep,” you say.

“Yeah,” Eridan says. “Yeah, it's really fuckin' bright.”

He weaves uncertainly in place, and you are afraid that he is in the process of falling over. Instead, he is leaning towards you, and before you can react, he kisses you on the mouth, briefly but deliberately.

“See ya tomorrow,” he says, suddenly jovial, and reaches for the door handle. He grabs it on the third try and finally manages to disappear into his room.

You stand in front of the door for a while.

Maybe if you stare at it long enough, you'll be able to process what just happened.

Maybe if you wait a while, he's going to come back out and apologize, saying he didn't know what he was doing, or that he confused you with someone else.

Maybe if you stand here a few minutes more, he's going to come out and kiss you again.

“Oh goodness,” you whisper to yourself, as you remain incapable of moving from the door. “Oh dear.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

You awake the next evening with a strange feeling of anticipation, as if the universe has radically changed in some way and you can barely wait to see how. You dress and spend too much time primping yourself, but in the end you can discern no difference between your hair now and your hair on nights when you don't comb it for twenty minutes.

You are not two steps out of your quarters when you come across Snagpie, frowning at a vase. Judging by the rag in her hand, she must have been sent to dust, but the way she's staring at it indicates she's merely displeased she can't fit it under her shirt without drawing attention.

“Good evening, sir,” she says, putting the vase back and adjusting it with exaggerated care. “Will you be needing your dress uniform washed and pressed?” she asks, sounding like an extra reciting a line in a poorly directed play. You wonder who interrupted her routine of prowling through the palace in search of shiny things to steal by actually putting her to work.

“I don't know. Do I?” you ask in return.

“For the visitor,” she says. “Shredaneer Staredge is due to arrive any minute now.”

This is the first time you've heard mention of this person, but by their title, you have a sneaking suspicion.

“The fleet commander for this sector of space,” you conclude. Snagpie nods. “...Former governtagonizer Debras' kismesis?”

“Yeah,” Snagpie snickers. “The one who's got his bulge wrapped 'round her little finger.”

You are shocked at her words and show it.

“That's just what everybody says!” Snagpie shrugs, defensive.

“Not in my vicinity, _Delora_.”

She wilts when you use her hatch name. Possibly you remind her of a displeased lusus, but that is fine with you. She looks down, curtsies sloppily, mumbles something, then curtsies again. She almost knocks down the vase with her elbow, but catches it in time.

“I assume Lord Ampora will be greeting her officially when she lands,” you say.

“Well, the first few times we had a ceremony and everything, but mostly she just eats, pokes around a bit and buggers off-- er, I mean departs again in a few hours. Now we just put out a table for her, and she's pleased enough.”

You inquire where this meal is to take place, and return to your room to get dressed. As it happens, you always send your dress uniform to be cleaned after wearing it even once—sweat stains can be so unsightly—and putting it on takes only a few minutes. What takes longer is checking to make sure none of the buttons are missing, which is not a habit you had before arriving here.

When you arrive to the smallest reception hall in the palace, you discover the servants haven't yet finished setting the table. Eridan and Drumrock are there, however, Drumrock with even more shawls than usual, and Eridan wringing his hands. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than usual, and he has a slight squint, but he shows no other ill effects after last night's excesses.

“I wonder what that beast even wants,” Eridan is saying as you approach. “I bet he tattled again. She never comes unless Debras has somethin' new to whine about.”

“Good evening,” you say.

“Evenin',” Eridan mutters, his gaze slipping right over you as he returns to his conversation with Drumrock. “It's just the timin' of it all, it's suspect as all get out. It hasn't even been that long since her last visit.”

Drumrock nods distractedly.

You stand where you are, head rushing as your anticipation fizzles out. He must have been too drunk yesterday to remember. You feel sick with an inexplicable loss, and then chide yourself for this dramatic overreaction.

“Quite frankly, our biggest worry is that she'll empty our larders,” Drumrock replies, “but you're right about the timing being suspect. Has Debras been up to anything new lately?”

“How the fuck should I know, all he's good at is boozin' an' losin' badly at gamblin',” Eridan replies, annoyed. Then he looks over at you, suddenly thoughtful. “Though we did cross paths the other night,” he admits. “I was, uh, a bit... under the table, but he talked to Eq.”

They both look at you expectantly, and you straighten up at the attention.

“He revealed nothing of note to me,” you say. “He was prattling and slinging mud at his betters.”

Eridan snorts.

“Don't take much to be his better,” he mutters. “Mighta been even Snagpie he was badmouthin', goin' by your description.”

“Yes, but we know who his preferred targets are,” you say.

Eridan nods, slow and suddenly quiet. He opens his mouth to say something, but then his eyes flick to Drumrock and he stops himself, shaking his head.

“She's coming,” one of the servants hisses as he rushes past to put the finishing touches on the table setting.

On his heels enters a blueblood in an Alternian Fleet uniform.

“Hullo the lot! Missed me?” she bellows, loud enough to rupture the eardrums of those in her immediate vicinity, which is to say, of everybody in the palace.

She is massive, not as broad as you, but making up for that by being taller. Her horns are grotesquely oversized corkscrews and her hair is a long tangle to her waist. You think back on the weedy, disgraced Debras and wonder what kind of charm he could possibly exert to have finagled his way into this fine troll exemplar's quadrants.

She pats Eridan on the shoulder with one gigantic hand, and though she doesn't seem to put any effort in it, Eridan's glasses are knocked askew as he tilts to the side.

“Didn't eat everything your lusus gave you, eh, Ampora?” she asks, and pokes him in the ribs with a rakish smile. “Still a scrawny little beanpole, I see.”

She turns to Drumrock next.

“Still old and decrepit, you dried-up flotsam?” she yells.

Drumrock gives an indulgent smile in return.

“Oh, Eridan, dear,” she says, her voice uncharacteristically soft and frail, “look who's come to visit.”

You are so confused by Drumrock's bizarre behavior, that you don't even notice Shredaneer Staredge turning towards you and looking you up and down.

“Ohoho, and look over here! Boyfriend?” she asks, looking at the two seadwellers. “Who's the lucky sport?”

Eridan sniffs.

“That's Mechangineer Zahhak,” he says, clearly annoyed. “ _You_ requested his presence, you goddamn creep.”

“Well, if these two won't bite,” she says, addressing you with a wide smile, “I can fit you in. Got flushed open right now, you interested?”

You nearly swallow your tongue in shock. She laughs, shakes your hand and pats you on the shoulder, and you prove somewhat more robust than Eridan.

“Is Betriz still head cook?” Staredge asks, and she says 'cook', not 'food preparation technician'. You make note of that.

“A course she is, nobody else wants the job,” Eridan replies.

“Wonderful!” She claps her hands, excited. “Bring on the dead beasts drenched in their own sauces! Time to feast on the flesh of slow fat creatures with inadequate defenses.”

You gag a bit.

“You alright there, Zahhak?” she asks, looking at you curiously.

“He's a vegetarian,” Eridan supplies.

“Oh, snap,” she says, feigning sorrow, “that's just how it goes. All the good ones are either taken or weirdos.”

“That would explain how you ended up with Debras,” you say.

Staredge laughs.

 

*

 

Staredge has impeccable manners, but she eats like the food has personally offended the Empress. She knocks down two courses before you're halfway through your first dish.

“You know what,” she says as a servant is taking away her plate, “just go and tell Betriz to throw a whole moobeast on the grill.”

Eridan rolls his eyes.

“I'm not joking,” Staredge says, giving the servant a stern glare when he snickers. “Go and tell Betriz I want a whole freakin' moobeast to eat.”

The servant throws Eridan a startled look, seeking some direction.

“Don't look at him, just go and tell her,” Staredge snaps, and the servant scurries off.

“You can't just fuckin' grill a whole moobeast in a few hours,” Eridan says, more belligerent than patronizing.

“Good thing I'll be staying longer then, eh?” she says with a smile and a wink. “Sorry, didn't know how else to break it to ya.”

Eridan drops his fork, probably because he doesn't trust himself not to fling it at someone in a fit of pique.

“What.”

“I think a few days should do it,” Staredge says. “Get all my business sorted.”

“What business?” Eridan demands. “Your only business is on your ship!”

“Geez, I don't crank the thing by hand to keep it running, Ampora,” Staredge huffs. “The ship'll be fine by herself for a few nights. Drumrock doesn't mind. Do you, you senile old bat?”

Drumrock gives Staredge a bland smile.

“We do like having you around, dear,” she says with a glazed-over expression. You are once again flummoxed.

Staredge shakes her head.

“Anyway,” Staredge continues, “hope you have some extra packets of sopor concentrate lying around, 'cause I'm staying even if I have to sleep in your bath tub.”

Eridan looks revolted.

“You're stayin' in the guest quarters an' that's final!” he says.

“Well, if you insist,” Staredge shrugs, “I simply _must_ stay.”

Eridan fumes, but doesn't rescind his offer. He picks up his fork again and stabs at his food. You all politely fail to notice when his plate cracks in two.

 

*

 

The meal concludes rather anticlimactically, with Staredge going “down to the kitchens for a nibble”, because apparently there's nothing like a full meal to make her feel peckish.

Drumrock sighs and adjusts her shawls. Her posture changes, in subtle ways you cannot name, but she is once more herself. You wonder what the purpose of her act is—to deceive Staredge, obviously, but _why_?

“Well, if she's staying longer, there are a few locks I need to double-check,” Drumrock mutters, and departs.

Eridan walks out onto the balcony, sullen and quiet.

It's past midnight, and the whole interlude with Staredge has disoriented you somewhat, but you remember the sense of purpose you woke up with this evening, and so you follow him. He shifts to the side and you fall into place beside him.

It's silent for a few moments. The city's lights are bright and steady, and a slight breeze picks up, bringing the smell of seawater from the--

“So why were you laughin'?” Eridan asks suddenly in a burst of nervous outrage.

“...What?”

“You were laughin' when I got back from the bathroom,” he says. “With Debras. If he was talkin' shit about me, why were you laughin'?”

And then Eridan gives you a wide-eyed, hurt look, as if you've betrayed his deepest confidence, and it makes your insides twist unpleasantly. At the very least you know that whatever kind of insecurity Debras brings out in Eridan, it doesn't reveal itself solely when he's drunk.

“Perhaps I was mistaken yesterday,” you say. “Perhaps it _was_ amusing.”

You relay to him the events that prompted your outburst, Debras calling out to Sandhaul and getting snubbed by the laborer, and though you report all of this too dryly to sound amusing, at least Eridan looks relieved. His posture relaxes, and a blush rises to his cheeks.

“...Sorry, I got completely turned around there,” he says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “I'm still really bad at this kinda thing.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Uh...” Eridan freezes, like a startled antlerbeast in a vehicle's front lights. “Well. See, I was going to ask... if you're... if it's... I mean, your flushed quadrant, how's it... um. Does... Is it... at all, I mean is it a thing for you right now?”

Despite his incoherence, you understood where he was going with this question the moment he mentioned the flushed quadrant.

Slow, deep breaths, and you will yourself not to start sweating like a waterfall. You carefully compose your answer in your head, go over it twice to make sure it is suitable, and deliver it in an even relaxed voice, as Nepeta taught you.

“No, I haven't had anyone offer to fill it yet,” you say, and it comes out slightly huskier than you anticipated, but that's okay, Nepeta said you could make that kind of thing work for you.

You wonder if you should attempt to casually lean against the banister and cross your arms, but you feel that would be pushing it a bit. Eridan looks suitably impressed for now, if the fact that his entire face is now violet is anything to go by.

“You know, Eq, you're one smooth operator when you try,” he says, and then smothers a nervous giggle.

“Yes, I am--” You try to think of something witty to say. “--simply the smoothest.” Well, that didn't last very long.

Eridan snorts and hides his face in his hands.

“Oh my god, I can't believe I kissed you,” he says, muffled. His shoulders shake with laughter. “I thought I'd need to apologize or somethin'.”

You gently take his wrists—careful, always careful—and move his hands away from his face.

“No need for apologies, your kiss was perfectly adequate,” you assure him, and pull him closer.

You put your arms around him, under his cape, and with your hands you follow his knobby spine down to his lower back. He leans into you, against you, tilts his head back in anticipation. You can't resist the impulse to trace chaste kisses over his brow, and against the side of his forehead, where you stop and sigh in contentment.

“Am I being a smooth operator again?” you ask.

He's quiet for a moment.

“Well, it's kinda ruined if you have to ask,” he replies.

Before you can come up with another line, he makes his move and presses his mouth against yours for a slow lingering kiss, and after that, speaking doesn't really matter anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't what I'd originally planned for this chapter, but heck, let's start the new year on a happy note.


	8. Chapter 8

Tragically, Eridan eventually returns to his duties, already disrupted by the unexpected visitor. You linger on the balcony for a few minutes more, dizzy with the novelty of the situation and, you suspect, smiling quite vapidly while staring off into the distance. You were warned about that potential side effect.

You make some tentative plans for the night—there's some research you need to do into the alien species which once inhabited the planet, and you suspect you might need Drumrock's permission to access those archives—but you put them on hold when Staredge ambushes you in a hallway.

Almost literally ambushes you. She jumps out of a side corridor and throws an arm around your shoulders. You freeze in place, completely still from head to toe, paralyzed by the old fear of breaking something or someone.

“Sorry, Zahhak, gonna have to put that booty call on hold,” she says.

“Excuse me?” you grit out.

“C'mon, guy, I didn't need to chat up the cooks to know you and Ampora are tanglebuddies,” she says. “But I did. And I know.” She releases your shoulders to fold her arms across her chest, and slides in front of you to block your path.

“That's-- what does that even-- Madam, I do not appreciate your use of bizarre innuendo in my vicinity,” you say.

“That's not a denial I'm hearing.” She smiles widely at you.

“Congratulations on not suffering any physical impairment, then,” you reply. “Other than the excessive protuberance of your sniff nodes.”

“...What?”

“You are much too nosy, Shredaneer Staredge,” you say tersely.

“Ooooh.” Her confusion melts into a pleased, vulpine expression which alarms you. “Call me Rianan. I like the cut of your jib, Zahhak.”

“I find the cut of yours quite indecent.”

She punches your shoulder in camaraderie you do not share.

“Let me ask you a question,” she says. “How'd you get caught up in this shit?”

“I was sent here on assignment from the Artifixers' Corps.”

“The Artifixers sent you to refurbish an alien doomsday device, did they?” Staredge asks. She still smiles, but her voice is nothing but steel.

You try to remain impassive through the unease you feel.

She knows because Debras told her, of course. How would Debras know? Obviously because someone told _him_. Who, is what you need to find out.

“No,” you reply.

“So it's just a DIY project you picked up on the side?” Staredge asks, eyes widening in a feigned sincerity and surprise. “A little hobby to unwind at the end of the day?”

“You are misinformed.”

“That's likely,” she shrugs. “Given the source.”

“You... you know Debras is a liar?”

“Of course he's a liar,” Staredge says, rolling her eyes. “My god, the things coming out of his mouth when I'm not putting it to better use, let me tell you--”

You gag.

“--I'm surprised he admits to his own name some days,” she continues undaunted. “But then, what worries me isn't when he's lying, it's when he's telling the truth.”

“I would guess it's an activity he engages in only sparingly,” you note.

Staredge shrugs one shoulder.

“ _Just_ often enough to keep dragging me back here,” she says.

“Let me ask you a question, then, Rianan,” you say. “how did you get involved with the likes of Debras?”

“But you didn't answer mine,” she says.

“Of course I did. You asked if I was working on an alien doomsday device and I said no. I don't know how I could have answered that question any more clearly, to be quite frank.”

She opens her mouth and then closes it again.

“Yeah, guess you're right,” she says, unexpectedly candid. “Alright, just because you are refreshingly straightforward compared to everyone else here, I'll tell you. He used to be charming, in an oily sort of way.”

“And was his oiliness a quality you look for in a kismesis?”

“Pickings are slim out here,” she shrugs. “He seemed the best option at the time.”

“Not so much recently.”

“Welllll,” Staredge grins, “I have other things to keep me busy these days. Like that Ampora fellow. You wouldn't believe the things Debras tells me about him.”

“Oh, I certainly would,” you say.

“You wouldn't believe the things he tells me about Drumrock, then,” she says, rather more ominously.

You stay quiet. You suspect that to be the wiser course of action at the moment.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Staredge snorts, as if your lack of response is somehow illuminating. With a final wicked smile, she turns on her heel and leaves. “See you around, Zahhak.”

 

*

 

Drumrock is busy when you arrive at her office, and by the sharp look she gives you, you are moments away from being thrown out. Her mood is sour enough that you decide to change your conversation opener.

“Shredaneer Staredge accosted me in the hallway just minutes ago.”

“Did she now?” Drumrock grouses, perhaps partially offended that Staredge would dare copy her maneuver in such a manner.

“Our conversation was quite interesting, to you specifically,” you add.

Drumrock leans back in her chair, waiting for your report, and you relay the salient bits. By the time you finish, Drumrock looks inscrutable.

“You didn't report to the Artifixers about the device?” she asks.

“No,” you reply. “I haven't spoken about it with anyone other than people who knew about it already.”

“Then of all the people who knew, there are three possible leaks. One would be Eridan,” Drumrock sighs, “though perhaps unintentionally. The other two you've already met.”

“Markop and Sandhaul?”

Drumrock nods.

“Then my suspicions fall on Sandhaul,” you say.

“Really?” Drumrock raises an eyebrow. “Any specific reason?”

You think back at that night in the bar, when Debras called out to Sandhaul. You didn't notice it at the time, but when Sandhaul looked over at Debras, his expression was fairly neutral. It wasn't until his gaze shifted to you that he became agitated. In that split second, you thought that perhaps Sandhaul had a smidgeon of shame and did not wish for his betters to know that he associated with filth the likes of Debras. Now... Now you wonder how Debras knew Sandhaul by name in the first place.

“Just a reasonable suspicion,” you say.

“Very well, then,” Drumrock shrugs. “I'll handle Eridan. You take Ladira.”

“...Take Ladira?”

“We need to find the leak,” Drumrock says. “If Eridan and Ladira Markop are the most likely to be innocent, we should eliminate them from the list early and avoid letting Sandhaul know we suspect him. I tend to agree with you, Zahhak. Sandhaul...” She shakes her head in disgust. “He's been here since Debras was governtagonizer. I thought we'd eliminated his loyalists, few though they were, but I suppose we didn't scrape the bottom of _that_ trash can thoroughly enough.”

“Ah, I see. Well, in that case, I have the perfect pretext for engaging with Markop again, and that leads me to a request I'd like to make.”

You leave Drumrock's office with access to all the archives for both you and Markop. You've always believed in the efficiency of killing two featherbeasts with one stone, and Markop assured you she could read as well as any troll.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't updated in a while, so I thought I should at least throw up something that does even a little bit to advance the plot (such as it is). Thanks to everyone who's still sticking around.


End file.
